


the girl from u.n.c.l.e.

by redbrunja



Series: we russians have nothing but our winter [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Car Sex, F/M, First Time, Getting Together, Humor, Porn with Feelings, Secretly a Virgin, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 11:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6076851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/pseuds/redbrunja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a spy, even taking a holiday requires a certain amount of subterfuge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the girl from u.n.c.l.e.

Gaby knew from her first meeting with Waverly that he was a prick. Prolonged exposure had not disabused Gaby of that impression.

 

Waverly was playing The Great Game and while he might care about the pieces he was moving around the board, it was the same way that she cared about the cars she worked on. A mix of professionalism and aesthetic appreciation. But in the end, there wasn't a car Gaby had ever touched that she wouldn't've crashed if doing so would get her over the Berlin Wall. She knew that Waverly would never pick her life over the success of a mission.

 

Gaby respected that, actually. She respected that Waverly would put her life in danger but didn't ask her to love him while he did it.

 

As far as superiors go, she could have it worse. She could have Solo's CIA handler, who was clever enough to know that Solo would have been wasted behind bars, and then petty enough to resent being right. She'd risked her life to avoid having her neck under the boots of men like the ones Illya obeyed.

 

Illya's superiors didn't seem to like the fact that they'd agreed to loan him to U.N.C.L.E, and had no qualms about ordering him back to the U.S.S.R. on a whim. They'd pulled him back to Moscow in the middle of missions before and if they noticed that there was a significant gap in active assignments, it was certain they'd suddenly require his services. There'd been one instance (Gaby had worked out the travel time with growing incredulity) where the Kremlin had ordered Illya to return to Moscow for five entire hours before he'd been boarding a plane back to Heathrow. He'd taken a taxi directly from the airport to U.N.C.L.E. H.Q., where they'd been briefed on a new mission and sent back to the airport for a transatlantic flight. She would have murdered someone at that point, but Illya handled the whole thing with aplomb. (He did sleep on the flight, which was rare. Gaby had insisted. She'd practically force-fed him three fingers of scotch and then dragged his head into her lap. She'd stroked his hair when he tried to argue. He'd slept until the pilot announced their descent to LaGuardia Airport. Solo had found the entire thing unspeakably humorous.)

 

Waverly had his faults, but he was scrupulous about taking care of the tools he needed to continue his work, which meant that after two grueling months of back-to-back missions, he handed Gaby and Illya a busman's holiday.

 

Solo was left to his own devices ("Just don't show up in a fortnight pregnant and intoxicated," had been Waverly's farewell) but Illya and Gaby had been ordered to an estate in the Lake District. Gaby had been sent to service the fleet of vehicles owned by "an old school chum" of Waverly's and Illya was tasked with offering her "any protection and assistance that might be required."

 

Five days at Silsoe Hall, and the greatest danger Gaby faced was not fitting into her dresses when she returned to London. The housekeeper served clotted cream topped lemon cakes with tea every afternoon - absolutely deadly.

 

That thought reminded her that she wasn't alone in the garage.

 

Gaby frowned up at the clutch she was fine-tuning and then rolled out from under the BMW.

 

Illya looked up instantly from the thick novel he was reading. He was seated at the worktable against the wall.

 

“Are you going to sit there all day?” she raised her eyebrows.

 

He blinked at her, his impossibly long lashes sweeping down. She could see his mind switching tracks - away from what he'd been reading, to her words, then choosing his response.

 

"Am I bothering you?" he asked. He closed the book, one finger keeping his place.

 

Gaby raised her eyebrows. "If you were bothering me, you'd know," she said.

 

The problem was that he _wasn't_ bothering her.

 

It wasn't bothersome to have Illya quietly reading while she got her hands dirty working on some truly superior cars.

 

It wasn't bothersome when she'd been under a Mercedes and needed a tool that was across the room. He'd fetched it without a word of complaint.

 

It certainly wasn't bothersome when she'd been bent over the engine of an Aston Martin and her hair elastic had snapped. She hadn't asked, but Illya had come to her side anyway, carefully gathering up her hair and holding it out of her face until she was finished with the adjustments she was making. The feeling of his long fingers carding through her hair, holding it back, had made Gaby's stomach shivery. He'd stood next to her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. He was very careful not to touch her with anything but his hands. That hadn't mattered. It had taken every scrap of her skill and self-control to keep working when her mind was filled with fantasies about what it would feel like if he bent her over the hood of the car, took her like that.

_Go away, Illya, I'm enjoying for your company._ She couldn't say that to him. She'd never been the type of girl who played those kinds of games and she wasn't about to start now.

 

She shrugged. "You can't think Waverly was sincere about the whole protecting me thing? He wasn't."

 

She propped up one knee, hooked her arm around it. Illya's mouth twisted like he'd tasted something bitter.

 

"That makes no difference," he answered finally, his voice very level.

 

For some reason, that made heat prickle across her cheeks.

 

"Well, it's your holiday," she said, the way she'd say, _it's your funeral._

She dug her heel into the spotless concrete floor, propelled herself back under the car.

 

The _bother,_ Gaby decided, hands back in the guts of the car, was that she _did_ enjoy his company and the longer she spent with him, the less she cared about all the reasons why she shouldn't.

 

She finished tightening a nut, set her wrench aside, and wiped the worst of the grease off her hands with a rag.

 

Nothing about Illya was easy, and he wasn't a safe man to want. But Gaby had never done anything because it was the easy, safe thing to do. If she had, she would still be behind the Berlin Wall.

 

"Twenty minutes and this sweetheart will be ready for a test drive," Gaby called out, still under the car. "And I promise, Illya, that will be worth waiting around for."

 

It was actually only fifteen before Gaby was scrubbing oil off her hands and shrugging out of her cover-alls. (When she glanced over her shoulder during this. Illya was staring at his novel with a frown of concentration).

 

Clad in a very cute pair of pedal pushers and a green blouse that she'd been wearing under her cover-alls, she slid behind the wheel. Without being asked, Illya opened the garage door for her, and closed it behind them after she'd driven out.

 

Gaby sedately drove away from Silsoe Hall.

 

The wet gravel of the drive barely shifted under the tires. The weather was filthy - fat drops of rain that streaked the windshield and tried to fog up the windows. She kept her window cracked and wet gusts of wind blew across her cheeks, the back of her neck. The roads were terrible; sloppy, rutted mud or slick, cracked pavement. A smart girl would be curled up by the fire, enjoying afternoon tea. Gaby intended to be a smart girl in another two or three hours.

 

As Silsoe Hall grew smaller in her rearview mirror, she glanced at Illya out of the corner of her eyes. Something about the set of his shoulders spoke of anticipation. The same emotion was burbling in her chest.

 

Gaby tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, felt Illya track the motion.

 

She turned from one country road to another and slammed the accelerator down.

 

The tires skidded for a moment and then found traction, shooting them forward.

 

Gaby shifted through the gears as fast as the car and the conditions could take, got the BWM to fifth gear and then immediately went into a spinning, hand-brake stop. Then she pressed the accelerator down and did it again. This time she pushed the upper limits of the car's speed, taking curves in the road with an edge of recklessness, finding straight-aways and hurtling down them like she was being chased by Stasi goons.

 

She sped through the country-side, everything gleaming palely in the rain, the sky the color of an oyster shell, the grass a rich, wet green.

 

One particular turn had the car sliding into an unplanned skid, directly towards a stone wall. Gaby turned the wheel, her foot kissed the gas pedal, the car's rear bumper swung past the stones with scant centimeters to spare, and then she was racing down the road again.

 

Gaby was laughing. It took her a minute to realize that joyful, giddy sound was something from her mouth. She glanced over at Illya and he was - he was staring at her. He'd been staring at her the entire drive. His eyes were impossibly blue, his lips just barely parted. One hand was braced on the dash, his feet on the floor and body angled towards her.

 

That wasn't - that wasn't entirely unprecedented, for him to not watch the road while she was driving, but usually the reason was clear - usually he was shooting out of the rear window or he and Napoleon were yelling about who was to blame for their being discovered or, once, he'd been bleeding all over the backseat and mumbling apologies in Russian. He didn't- It wasn't like now, when it was just her and her driving and he was staring at her like–

 

Gaby didn't know how to describe it, the way Illya Kuryakin was looking at her.

 

She fumbled a bit, downshifting. She yanked up the handbrake and then he reached for her and she climbed into his lap and they kissed. And kissed and kissed and _kissed._ Illya's mouth was cool against hers and he groaned when she bit his bottom lip. Gaby felt giddy and safe all at once. It was only when she bumped her head for the third time on the car's low ceiling that she put her hands on Illya's shoulders and breathed "stop" into his mouth. He froze instantly.

 

She clambered back into the driver's seat, put the car into gear, and realized that Illya had a stricken expression on his face.

 

"This car is too small for," she gestured between them. "Don't you think?"

 

Illya cleared his throat, nodded.

 

On the way back, Gaby forced herself to focus very, very hard on her driving. Neither of them spoke.

 

When they pulled into the garage, Illya once again opened and closed the door for her and the BMW, wordless. He had a blank, slightly angry expression on his face. It was an expression he wore often. Sometimes when he was angry, sometimes when he was trying to hide whatever he was truly feeling.

 

Gaby killed the engine. Normally, she would wash the car down, after a drive like that. The BMW was liberally splattered with mud and it wasn't good for the paint to just let it dry. But her blood was running hot and reckless in her veins and she had the paranoid suspicion that Waverly was about to ring or Solo was about to magically appear.

 

She wanted to get Illya to her bedroom and lock the door before either of those things could happen.

 

She slipped the car keys into her pocket, took Illya by the wrist, and lead him from the garage, through the first floor, up two flights of stairs, and into her borrowed bedroom.

 

Gaby closed the door behind them, clicked the lock closed, and pressed herself back again the wood, face tilted up invitingly.

 

Moving very, very slowly, Illya placed his hands on the wood next to her head, leaned down to brush his lips against hers.

 

They necked against the door until Gaby took pity on Illya's back and ducked away from his mouth, under his arm, and lead him to her bed.

 

They undressed slowly, fingers exploring each centimeter of newly bared skin, until Gaby was wearing nothing at all and Illya was only wearing a pair of practical briefs that did nothing to hide the size of him, how much he wanted her.

 

Especially not with the way Gaby pressed herself against him as they kissed, lying side by side. She shifted away a little, gave herself room to reach between them. She reached down, dragged a fingernail along his length, touching him lightly through the thin fabric. He moaned, one hand coming up to scrub across his face. They pulled his briefs off together.

 

"Gaby," Illya said. His voice was very, very serious. He lowered his hand to her hip, spread his fingers across her skin.

 

"Hmm?" she asked, kneeling next to him. She felt electric, her blood was all heat and snapping sparks.

 

He stared at her, searching for something in her face. His shoulders tensed, like he was bracing for a blow. She felt his fingers tremble, curled around her hip.

 

"I have not... " his jaw clenched, teeth grinding together, like he couldn't force himself to speak the rest of that sentence. It wasn't only lust that had his cheeks flushed.

 

Gaby wasn't entirely surprised by the admission. She'd had her suspicions. She wasn't prepared for her own reaction. She hadn't intended to drag her gaze up and down his body –fair skin, firm, defined muscles, erect cock, and his blue, blue eyes carefully watching her face– and think, greedily, _mine._

 

She sprawled out next to him, her hair spreading across the white bedspread, arms stretching up towards the headboard, and smiled. Her expression made Illya's breath visibly catch.

 

"Good," she said. "No bad habits."

 

Illya shook his head, wordless.

 

"First, I'd like you to kiss me," she decided. She dragged her fingers down her body, from her neck over her breast, across her belly, down between her thighs, where she ached for his mouth.

 

Clever boy, he followed the path of her fingers perfectly, pushing himself up on his elbows to brush his mouth along her collarbone, dipping lower to kiss her breasts. Gaby wasn't particularly well-endowed and after realizing that any curves it might look like she had were generally owed to her lingerie, her boyfriends usually ignored her breasts. Illya didn't. He licked her right nipple and when she made a pleased sound, he repeated the action on the left. His stubble rasped pleasantly across her skin. He took his time, mouth soft on her tits, drifting kisses across her chest until she was flushed and her cunt slick and then he went lower.

 

Illya may have been inexperienced but he wasn't ignorant. Gaby remembered the fumbling discomfort that had been mutually losing her virginity to her first boyfriend. There was nothing of that here. Illya touched her like he was mapping every centimeter of her skin, cataloguing each reaction.

 

Illya stroked her thighs gently, his calluses wonderfully rough on her skin.

 

"So soft," he murmured, already sounding lost, and Gaby shivered.

 

When she slipped her hand between her thighs, used her fingers to spread herself open, Illya licked into her without hesitation. For a brief period Gaby provided explicit instruction - _higher, right there, oh, like that, don't stop_ \- and then she was just making breathless, pleased noises, pleasure twisting tighter and tighter until she came, thighs shaking.

 

Illya didn't stop until she moved away from him, over-sensitive after her orgasm, one hand on his head so he wouldn't follow her. She shifted so her back was against the headboard, legs stretched out across the tousled sheets. They'd managed to shove most of the blankets onto the floor already.

 

After a moment, Illya mirrored her, sitting next to her.

 

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes.

 

He was looking at her, and when she caught his gaze his cheeks flushed a deeper pink and he ducked his head, wiping at his mouth with the inside of his wrist. He was still hard.

 

She watched him for another long moment, waiting to see if he'd get impatient, if he'd reach for her, but of course he didn't. Illya never took more from her than she offered, like he understood that she was made up of mostly bitterness and scrap-metal, that there was so little of herself that she could afford to give away.

 

He cleared this throat, frowned down at the bed. She'd gotten good at reading Illya, and she suspected he was seconds away from attempting to set the bed to rights, pull the sheets over them, potentially add some modesty to this endeavor.

  
That was not was Gaby wanted.

 

She leaned over, retrieving a rubber from the bedside table.

 

Gaby tore the packet open with her teeth, rolling it onto Illya's cock with careful fingers before she climbed onto his lap. His hands were on her waist, gripping her so hard she was sure to have bruises in the morning.

 

She carded her fingers though Illya's hair, met his eyes. He looked at her like this was an impossible dream. She gripped his shoulders, sank down on him slowly, the stretch and slide so intense that she closed her eyes, lost in the sensation.

 

Illya made a strangled sound deep in his throat, dug his fingers into her hips hard enough that she knew she would find bruises there tomorrow, would be able to see the ghost of his touch in the mirror. She gasped at the thought.

 

He cupped the back of her neck, pulled her into a hard kiss.

 

Illya's hands roamed her back, pulled at her hips, desperate, like she still wasn't close enough. He was inside her, and he touched her like he still wanted more.

 

Gaby braced herself against his shoulders, increased her pace. Gaby had never felt as powerful as she did in that moment, Illya under her, feeling his banked strength, hers to command. She swiveled her hips, listened to him choke on his breath.

 

She knew he was close, knew it by the tension in his body, the way he struggled with his breath. She forced herself to keep her eyes open, to resist losing herself. She wanted to see every single second of him falling apart under her. She wanted to burn the image of it into her mind. This little piece would always belong to her, Illya clinging to her and breaking apart with a choked cry in the tangled bedsheets of her borrowed bed; that brief moment when Illya Kuryakin belonged entirely to her.

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

Her first morning back in London, Gaby used a heavier hand than normal with her foundation. She did her best to conceal not just her freckles, but the color that fucking Illya in the shower first thing had put into her cheeks.

 

It hadn't worked.

 

Walking into H.Q., she didn't even manage to wish Napoleon a good morning before he was smirking at her like Christmas and his birthday had occurred at once.

 

She glared at him.

 

She imagined she could see the curated queue of comments scrolling through Napoleon's mind.

 

"Good morning, Ms. Teller," Waverly said from behind her. "Would you mind joining me in my office?"

 

Napoleon's cheated expression was a thing of beauty. She walked backwards a few steps, memorizing it.

 

The corner of his mouth quirked, he winked at her, and then turned on his heel. He was clearly off to find Illya. Illya had left her flat while her hair was still wet, off to return to his rooms, unpack, and make his own way to U.N.C.L.E. H.Q. He might even have beaten her here.

 

She took a seat in Waverly's office. Her holiday had been lovely. She'd had a wonderful time working on those cars. Yes, the estate was beautiful, not quite as beautiful as the cars, but what could be?

 

Waverly gave her an unamused glance down his nose, clearly hearing her unspoken threat to continue speaking of the cars in rapturous terms. He was not a particular fan of motor vehicles. Not the way she and Solo were.

 

They let the silence lay between them for a long moment.

 

"I have to say, I'm surprised," he said finally.

  
Gaby doubted it. She would have doubted it even if she hadn't known the butler at Silsoe Hall had been giving Waverly regular reports on his agents. And she and Illya had been spectacularly indiscreet. After their first time, Illya hadn't spent a single night in his room. Gaby had left every vehicle in the garage at Silsoe Hall gleaming and in better repair than when they'd been driven off the show-room floor. But she'd also lost entire afternoons tangled up with Illya, his hands and his mouth and the weight of him only stoking her lust hotter. She'd spent lazy mornings riding him, moving sweet and slow, the bed still a wreck from the night before.

 

"You're such a clever girl, Gaby," Waverly continued. He sounded genuinely concerned. "Kuryakin. He'd not really a safe bet, is he?"

 

"I wasn't aware there was a such a thing as a 'safe bet' in our profession," Gaby commented waspishly. " _You've_ never asked me to make one."

 

That shut him up nicely.

 

"Well, that is certainly true," he said after a long moment. Gaby had a suspicion that there had been a lecture he'd discarded on the spot. "And neatly leads me to your next mission. Vienna is quite lovely this time of year, although I'm afraid you won't have much time for sight-seeing...."


End file.
